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But though he went out into the garden with them readily enough, it was quite another thing to make him pick currants, for he insisted on wandering all over the place and demanding what had become of everything he missed, and the history of everything new. And pretty soon Mr. Steele also appeared in the garden, having found no one in the house on reaching home. He had learned on the street that Arthur had arrived, and came out beaming. It was good to see the hearty affection with which the two shook hands.

The transition of the son from the pupilage of childhood and youth to the independence of manhood is often trying to the filial relation. Neither party fully realizes that the old relation is at an end, or just what the new basis is, or when the change takes place. The absence of the son for two or three years at this period has often the best results. He goes a boy and returns a man; the old relation is forgotten by both parties, and they readily fall into the new one. So it had fared with Arthur and his father.

“You’ve got a splendid lot of watermelons,” said the former, as they arrived at the upper end of the ample garden in their tour of inspection.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Steele, with a shrug; “only thus far they’ve been stolen a little faster than they ‘ve ripened.”

“What made you plant them so near the fence?”

“That was my blunder; but you see the soil is just the thing, better than lower down.”

“Why don’t you buy a bulldog?”

“I think it’s more Christian to shoot a man outright than to set one of those devils on him. The breed ought to be extirpated.”

“Put some ipecac in one or two. That ‘ll fetch ’em. I know how sick it made me once.”

“I did; but more were stolen next night. I can’t afford to medicate the whole village. Last night I sat up to watch till twelve o’clock, when mother made me go to bed.”

“I’ll watch to-night,” said Arthur, “and give ’em a lesson with a good load of beans from the old shotgun.”

“It would n’t pay,” replied his father. “I concluded last night that all the melons in the world were n’t worth a night’s sleep. They ‘ll have to go, and next year I ‘ll know more than to plant any.”

“You go and help Amy pick currants, and let me talk to the boy a little,” said Mrs. Steele, coming up and taking Arthur off for a promenade up the broad path.

“How pretty Amy has grown,” said he, glancing with a pleased smile at the girl as she looked up at her father. “I suppose the young men are making sheep’s eyes at her already.”

“It does n’t do them any good if they are,” said Mrs. Steele, decisively. “She’s only sixteen and a little girl yet, and has sense enough to know it.” “What had she been crying for when I arrived? I saw her eyes were as red as the currants.”

“Oh, dear!” replied Mrs. Steele, with a sigh of vexation, “it was her troubles at the Seminary. You know we let her go as a day scholar this sum-mer. Some of the girls slight and snub her, and she is very unhappy about it.”

“Why, what on earth can anybody have against Amy?” demanded Arthur, in indignant surprise.

“I suppose it’s because some of the little hussies from the city have taken the notion that they won’t associate with a mechanic’s daughter, although Amy is very careful not to say it in so many words, for fear of hurting my feelings. But I suspect that’s about where the shoe pinches.”

Arthur muttered something between an oath and a grunt, expressing the emphasis of the one and the disgust of the other.

“I tell Amy it is foolish to mind their airs, but I ‘m really afraid it spoils the poor girl’s happiness.”